When the man dropped his shirt
as he was leaving the beach with girl and beer,
he couldn’t have imagined what I would do
with this rag. Little house, soft labyrinth.
Tent, cloud monkey. Playing card
without number, sign, or face —
played on the table of my beach,
because he who makes of what he finds
dreamt belonging becomes the sole owner,
the one who sets traps for rags.